Memento mori

It starts like any other casual mirror check-up. You walk past a mirror, catch a glimpse in the corner of the eye and stop to see who's there. Straighten the posture, suck up the belly, up the chest and there you are. The same, everyday, you. It's the perfect opportunity for some nose picking and soul-searching. You come near the mirror to frown upon the rate your new beard grows and try a charming/sarcastic smile. On the verge of discarding the embarrassing narcissistic moment with "I need a bath and a haircut" it strikes you. First, one near the temple, than more on the hair line, everywhere. I have grey hair! I will die. But no, it's not that easy, first I will suffer all the indignities and incontinences, continuing to fear the future, glorifying the past while carefully avoiding analysing the present shit I am in. I remembered Philip Roth's Everyman, a book that scared me senseless. I swear to read it again at 60 and commit suicide if it doesn't make me laugh. It probably won't. I probably wouldn't.